Chapter 3

He froze.

"Because your mother thought I wasn't good enough for you. We argued. She pushed me down the stairs."

His face went pale.

"I was twenty-three then too. First pregnancy. All alone—I'd left my city, my parents, everything to be with you."

My tone stayed flat.

"You don't remember, do you?"

"Elena, my mom didn't mean to—"

"I know." I cut him off.

"That's why I forgave her."

"I believe she didn't mean it. She looked terrified afterward."

"She just didn't expect that you were standing right behind me... and you didn't catch me."

Leon's face drained of color.

"Elena, how can you think that?" His voice rose.

"That was my first child too. How could I deliberately not catch you?"

I looked down at his hand gripping mine.

That hand hadn't caught me three years ago.

And now, three years later, it was asking me to terminate again.

"So." I pulled my hand away.

"Your mom pushed me, you failed to catch me, we lost that baby—all just accidents?"

"Yes! Accidents. Nobody wanted that to happen."

"Then tell me." I locked eyes with him.

"Is this time an accident too?"

He went silent.

"Her pregnancy was an accident? You demanding I abort is an accident?" Each word landed like a hammer.

"Leon, how is it that all your family's 'accidents' happen to me?"

His face flushed red.

The room stayed quiet for a long time.

So long I thought he wouldn't speak again.

Then he did.

"Elena, what do you want me to do?"

He looked up, eyes bloodshot.

"It's you on one side, her and two babies on the other—what the fuck am I supposed to do?"

I stared at him.

"What am I supposed to do? That's what I should be asking you."

My voice cracked into a scream:

"She's young, first pregnancy, abortion would hurt her body—so she can't be harmed, but I deserve it?"

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what DID you mean?"

He said nothing.

I looked at this face I'd known for three years. Suddenly it seemed like a stranger's.

So unfamiliar I didn't even recognize who he was anymore.

"Leon." My voice steadied.

"You're asking me to kill my own child to make room for someone else's. Do you know what that's called?"

His lips moved.

"It's called murder." Each syllable deliberate.

"You want me to murder my baby so I can raise your bastards."

"Elena—"

I slapped him.

The crack echoed through the room.

His face whipped to the side. He stood frozen.

My palm stung, but my chest hurt worse.

"That slap was for my baby." My voice didn't shake.

"Remember—you're the one who didn't want him."

"We're getting divorced."